Surtr Nothung awoke lazily. That wasn't quite true though. Being an inanimate object, it was hard for it to sleep in the first place. But if one were to call its previous state sleep, the state the blade was in now could definitely be called a lazy awakening. Getting its bearings the sword did what passed for a sigh when considering the functions of magical objects. It was still in the same room it had been in for the last very long while. It was not pleased by this, and the sword began to swear. No one could hear it, but it did so anyway, cursing away, turning the dusty air around it blue and green with his vehemence. The weapon was getting rather irritated now. It was tired of sleeping, tired of waiting. It lusted for blood. It wanted to kill someone, break something, watch an empire fall as he so liked to fall, violently, and with a great deal of blood. That required a wielder. Someone strong, someone skilled. Gram needed a champion, but he didn't have anything to choose from.

He supposed being a two-metre Flammenschwert didn't help. Greatswords were difficult enough to wield with skill, the kind of person that could swing him around and still be a lethal contender on the battlefield was worth at least two men. At least, that was the way it had worked the last time he had been on a battlefield. That had been a glorious time. He didn't know how many people he had murdered. But it was glorious. The sword began to rage again, its thoughts of the past renewing its desire for bloodshed. "[i]Curse this place. Not even the dead walk down here. I hope I find the man who left me here. I'll disembowel him, let him bleed out as he tries to hold in his guts![/i]" The sword was very enthusiastic about his violence. Being a weapon, it was only proper, but more than a few were still put-off by it.

"[i]What kind of place is this? No denizens to carry me to battle... Who leaves a magical sword unguarded?[/i]" the blade wondered if his voice could carry to the surface. He did the magical-sword-equivalent of taking a deep breath, and then tried the magical-sword-equivalent of screaming, projecting his voice as best he could "[i]Help me![/i]" he bellowed, figuring that would attract the most attention. It would be confusing for anyone passing by, at first, since they wouldn't actually hear his voice, since he didn't actually have a voice. The sword's words were simply projected into the minds of any who could absorb them. He screamed again a moment later, and then waited another couple of moments before trying it a third time.

After about an hour of screaming every few minutes, Gram wondered if this was really what he was reduced to, sitting on a broken, profaned alter, trapped in a scabbard, screaming for help in a vain hope that someone would even bother to look for him. This was a horrible existence. He passed the time plotting a more horrible way to murder whoever had done this to him. Such treatment was unacceptable. No other race could even survive this long, so how they expected him to put up with it he couldn't fathom. After a few more hours passed, Gram resolved that once a day he would try crying out for help, and then he'd just have to spend the rest of his time trying not to go crazy. The weapon figured it was insane enough as it was, it didn't need to go more insane with loneliness and unfulfilled bloodlust...